COUNTDOWN TO LÜTZEN VI: DAYS OF VICTORIES IV

DAYS OF VICTORIES

A historical tale by Werner von Heidenstam
translated from the Swedish and adapted by Sandra Dermark

IV. The crossing of the Lech

The great Protestant army, of which now the Swedes merely formed the core, was once more on the field in springtime, as drums drubbed and trumpets called. Church bells pealed and people shouted with glee to welcome Gustavus Adolphus. But when he had crossed the Danube and reached the Bavarian border at the River Lech, then, Tilly, in his intrenchments on the other bank, the right bank, was already waiting for him. Humiliated and irate, the old man was still reflecting on his defeat at Breitenfeld. He had the idea that he would never be able to close his eyes calmly again, if he had not firstly avenged such a disgrace to his warrior's reputation with a victory.

"Listen, my lads!", the King told his riders in a loud voice, as he rode out along the muddy left bank on the other side. "Fifty crowns for the one who can probe the depth of the river!"

Thus, a dragoon quickly dressed up as a farmer. He waded into the surging rapids of the Alpine river, carrying a long pole. The white waters soon reached up to his waist, and there stood Tilly's men, laughing at his pretend clumsiness.

"You've got to be mad as a hatter, you farmboy!", they said. "The river is just twenty-two feet deep!"

That was good information for the skilful dragoon. With a most complaining voice, he pleaded to the men that they should help him, in the name of the Virgin, to escape the clutches of the grim Swedes. One of the soldiers on the right bank took off his clothing and waded forth into the water to pull the wretch over onto land with the pole. In that manner, the dragoon could see how the river-bed sloped on the right bank side. He did not need to find out anything more, then. He pretended to be scared and struggled, dripping, up onto dry land, leaving the stark naked and freezing soldier to turn around in anger.

Now, the dragoon could tell the King everything that he needed to know. Then, the Swedes hastened to break some cottages down, and they crafted, according to the dragoon's description, low trestles of wood. Meanwhile, without interruption, bullets rattled over the waters. Thus, on the left river bank, the soldiers lit up an immense bonfire of tar and damp straw, so that they could work, unseen, concealed by the smoke screen, and lay out a bridge on the trestles. A band of sooty Finns quickly rushed across towards the right bank, with spades and hoes instead of weapons. There, the ones who hadn't been killed began to dig up trenches, to protect the army that would follow them. In the meantime, the King himself was aiming and firing the cannons, and the thunder could be heard far into the land, as far as the Alps.

Then, Tilly himself came out of his intrenchment with rigid, yet impatient steps. He gave himself a short time to close his eyes and whisper his customary sincere prayer to the Virgin: "Hail Mary, full of grace..."
Losing his self-control, he saw how his men were being forced to retreat again. The brim of his hat was, in the front, raised up to the sky, above his high aquiline nose, and the wisps of his silver white hair fluttered around his wrinkled cheeks. Around him, it was raining bullets and broken treetops upon his faltering ranks. Without doubting, he seized a flag and hastened, at the head of his bravest Walloons, down to the river bank. But, suddenly, the flag sank to the ground. The time had finally come for the thundering storm that would, for once and for all, strike the Titan down with its lightning. The bullet which Fate had chosen to quench his long warrior's life had struck him. His right leg crushed just above the knee, he was carried away, unconscious and bleeding, by his defeated and fleeing ranks.

Tilly was laid to bed in the Bavarian Elector's carriage, which, heavily shaking, carried him to Ingolstadt Fortress. There, for fourteen long days of suffering, he lay in pain on his deathbed. He had never sought any earthly gain, so he left his modest fortune to share between a relative of his and the faithful soldiers who had followed him in so many legendary battles. Gustavus Adolphus's personal surgeon was tending to the struggling general's wounds. His face pale with blood loss and pain, the respectable, yet broken old man still gave his advice to the sorrowful Elector, but for his own misfortunes there was no longer any comfort. The din of the thundering Swedish cannons soon reached the infirmary, and it haunted him until the instant when he drew his last breath.

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